I grew up on Lebanese food.

I’m not Lebanese. But growing up in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, I might as well have been. The Island has, for its population, a sizable Lebanese community. A lot of the merchants on the Island are Lebanese, one of Charlottetown’s city councilors is, and PEI has now had two premiers of Lebanese decent.

My grandmother’s bridge parties consisted of her and five Lebanese ladies.

Now, the how and the why so many people from that area of the world ended up on PEI remains a mystery to me (although I’m pretty sure there is a book or two explaining it), all I know is I love Lebanese food. Not Israeli, Syrian, Cypriot or whatever. No, it’s Lebanese I love. One of the best restaurants in Charlottetown is Lebanese, Cedar’s Eatery, and I grew up eating there and eventually ended up running their upstairs bar.

I shit falafel.

Ever since leaving the Island to come to Toronto we have yet to find a restaurant, Middle Eastern in general, Lebanese specifically (but you knew that already), that has yet to match the wonder that is Cedar’s.

I thought I should rectify that. Rather than going around saying, “There is no good Lebanese food in Toronto, Period.” I thought I should undertake finding at least the best hommous. With the help of a couple of intrepid friends – or guinea pigs –we set off.

Now, one of my companions had eaten at Cedar’s once or twice (being married to me it’s hard not to) but the other had never been once in his life. He was our control group in this experiment. He had never once tasted the magic that is owner Maroun Abdallah’s hommous. He had no point of reference. He had a virgin palate.

So on one of the warmer Saturdays this spring we jumped into action hitting nine vaguely Middle Eastern restaurants around the downtown. We’ve mentioned to a couple of folks that we had done this and reaction is often, “That’s a lot of hommous.” Well, it is a lot of hommous, but not if you don’t eat it all. Some of it was complete inedible.

The panel was unanimous in some of its decisions. Namely that the hommous at Ali Baba’s (any Ali Baba’s) was like eating cold wet plaster. It was bland chick pea soup. It wasn’t even dip-able. It sloshed around in the takeaway container and even frothed a bit. This stuff was definitely not on.

I should explain too that we had devised a scale for the various attributes that make up a good hommous: It should have a slight lemon tang, a bitter back beat from the tahini (sesame paste, dontchaknow), and garlic overtones without being over-powering; all of this resting on the chickpea foundation. The texture (I refuse to say “mouth feel”, it’s like “mouthwatering”, just ask me sometime) should be somewhere between creamy and coarse. This describes a perfect hommous, the uber-hommous, Cedar’s hommous.

Ali Baba’s was not this hommous.

The next-to-worst dip we tried came from a place that looks great, has friendly staff, and other food that is pretty good. Just not the hommous. Momo’s at 196 Robert Street near Harbord was surprisingly bad. The texture and colour were right, but that was it. Somehow it was sweet -too sweet, in fact, to eat. We were very disappointed.

The next five that we tried were pretty much all of the same. Neither good nor bad, but nothing outstanding.

Jerusalem’s (955 Eglington Avenue) kick at the can had too much tahini. As a matter of fact it might have been 100% tahini. Why this happens I don’t know. The balance of ingredients may be difficult to maintain or perhaps someone just likes a lot of sesame paste.

Ghazale (504 Bloor Street West), a little take away neat to the Bloor cinema, had a smoky little number, like the sesame was roasted and then made into a paste, but the texture was all wrong. Not the brown-water disaster that was Ali Baba’s but wrong nonetheless.

Arabesque (1068 College Street) used too much lemon. Very tart. The lemon juice was actually separating from the paste. Disconcerting to say the least.

Laila Falafel (553 Bloor Street West) replaced the garlic with salt and then added some more. Texture was right if you like peanut butter.

We all had high hopes for Tabule (2009 Yonge Street). Nice website with a menu that at least looked familiar. A lot of places in the city seem to call certain dishes by different names. Majederra becomes lentils and rice, yabrak becomes vine leaves, that sort of thing. This menu didn’t westernize any of the names (other than the phonetic spellings of course) and when we ordered our takeaway the staff was very pleasant and accommodating. The fact that we didn’t care for their hommous doesn’t mean we won’t go back for another visit, we will. We just won’t order that hommous which turned out to be a disappointment. Too much lemon, too much garlic and a gluey (gluey!) texture.

The final two we all agreed were the best. Ouzeri (500a Danforth Avenue) and Free Times Café (320 College Street) were good and Free Times was even close to the holy grail of hommous, Maroun Abdallah’s mother’s–recipe hommous. Plus Free Times includes a generous helping of roasted vegetables and olives besides. The only complaint about Free Times was that the actual serving of hommous was kind of small. It was hidden under all the veg. Ouzeri’s was a huge serving and had an intense flavour with no one ingredient dominating the other. It also has a little heat kick, which not everyone cared for, but we all agreed that it was pretty good shit.

We all spent the rest of that Saturday in a garlic-induced trance, each of us dreaming about the perfect hommous, that kind angels make. At least the angels at Cedar’s. We decided that this adventure is far from over. We hit nine spots in a city with over 10,000 restaurants. There has to be a perfect bowl of hommous out there. Somewhere.